


I Came Around

by standbygo



Series: November 2014 Song Challenge [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach-Related, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3499556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He was gone on her, completely gone. He would do anything for her."</p><p>A deeper look at Anderson, Reichenbach through HLV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.
> 
> Another in a series of pieces, built out of a challenge/cooperation between ResidentBunburyist and myself. Each piece begins with a piece of music, then I write a piece and RB draws a picture for it, or RB draws a picture and I write a piece for it. 
> 
> This prompt came from RB - I Came Around, by Murder By Death

** **

_I took you for a hanger-on_

_But the way those folks all wept_

_You must've been doing something right_

_To move the company you kept_

_… I was wrong about him, I came around._

  * _I Came Around, Murder by Death_




 

 

**Part I**

 

“Cover your balls, Phillip, Donovan’s running this scene,” Burnett said.

“Who?” Phillip said.

“Sergeant Donovan, AKA Sally the Screamer. Rip your head off as soon as look as you. A real bitch.”

Phillip looked into the room, and saw a halo of black curly hair in the middle of a crowd of male officers; the only woman in the room. He shifted his kit into his left hand and walked up to her.

“Sergeant Donovan?”

“Yeah?” she said as she turned to him, and suddenly Phillip felt like a spotty fifteen year old again.

“Phillip Anderson, forensics,” he said, and was grateful his voice didn’t crack.

“’Bout time you got here. Come over here, there’s several pools of blood, we’ll need samples from each.”

Hours later, Phillip discovered a partial handprint and pinky fingerprint on a doorframe. When he showed it to Donovan, she grinned. He honestly thought a flash bulb had gone off, and realized he needed to know more about Sally Donovan. And that he was going to keep himself from punching Burnett the next time he saw him.

+

Two days later, he nearly dropped the pipette he was holding when Sally stuck her head into the lab.

“Just wanted to let you know we made an arrest in that warehouse murder,” she said. “Matched the fingerprint you found. So thanks.”

“That’s – that’s great. Thank you. For telling me,” he said. He glanced at his empty coffee mug. “Would you – ah – I’m just finished up here and – would you like to get some-”

She leaned against the doorway and gave him a cool, appraising stare. He felt himself flush under the scrutiny.

“All right,” she said at last, and walked away.

Phillip dropped the pipette and grabbed his coat. The pipette fell to the floor and broke.

 +

He went home that night and told Janice as he hung up his coat, “They made an arrest today on that warehouse murder case. I found the print that tracked the guy.”

“That’s great, Phillip,” Janice said, without turning away from the cooker. “Did you remember to pick up milk on the way home?”

“Shit,” he muttered.

+

They started getting coffee every day. It was just coffee, he said to himself. Just coffee with a co-worker.

+

He was collecting blood samples from another crime scene when he heard Sally arguing with an unfamiliar voice, a deep male voice. He looked up and saw a tall skinny bloke literally looking down his nose at Sally.

“If you all weren’t so incompetent, I could have figured his out hours ago!”

“Oh, like the last one?” Sally snapped.

“Not my fault he got himself shot by his partner before you lot caught up with him.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Phillip was up on his feet and across the room. Sally was glaring at the man with a look that had sent other men running for cover. Phillip stood next to her and scowled at the intruder. “Who the hell are you?”

The man looked him up and down, and smiled smugly. “I’m the one that’s going to solve this murder.” He strode off, but not before he shot a look over his shoulder. “Don’t waste your time with this one, Sally – he’s married.”

Phillip felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He dared to look at Sally; she was gritting her teeth and huffing with fury.

“Who the hell is that?” he muttered to her. He crossed his arms to hide his shaking hands.

“Sherlock Fucking Holmes, that’s who he is,” she snapped. She walked away quickly towards a group of officers, shouting, “This isn’t a rest home! You’ve got jobs to do!”

+

Phillip threw himself into the case, but the Holmes guy figured it out first. The arsehole rattled off his theory in front of everyone and left the scene with a swirl of his poncey coat. Phillip at first ignored him, but when he finished analyzing the evidence, several hours later, he realized that the arsehole had been right. He felt exhausted and furious all at once.

He made his way down to his car, feeling more tired than he ever had before. When he got down to the garage, though, he was shocked into wakefulness by the sight of Sally leaning against his car.

“Want some dinner?” she said.

+

They pulled up outside the restaurant and Phillip turned off the engine. He was about to open the door when Sally laid a hand on his arm.

“Phillip,” she said quietly. “Do you have something to say to me?”

The words fell out of his mouth. “I want you,” he said.

She leaned in close, and murmured into his mouth, “No strings, okay? If your wife finds out, we’re done.”

“Okay,” he whispered, and closed the distance between them.

+

If Sally was beautiful when she smiled, she was incandescent when she came.

+

It was easy. Easy to put up a professional face at the office, easy to play loving husband at home, then lose himself in Sally’s hair and skin at her place.

He didn’t feel guilty at all, and felt guilty for not feeling guilty. He dimly wondered if there was something wrong with him, something amoral, but he didn’t care.

+

His wife went to visit her sister for the weekend. Sally came over and they had sex in the living room and the kitchen and the upstairs landing.

They were careful to not leave love bites on each other’s skin, and checked themselves carefully in the mirror before leaving the house. They were careful.

Sherlock Fucking Holmes figured it out anyway.

+

Holmes was on every big case, every complex case. Any case that would have allowed Phillip to show his stuff, to get ahead, Holmes would show up and solve it first. Phillip always checked his findings anyway, and Holmes was always right, just several hours ahead.

Every time he saw Holmes at a crime scene, he felt a sinking feeling in his gut. He covered it up with insults. The insults were a poor bandage for his wounded ego, but Holmes would rip it off anyway.

+

He saw Sally talking to a short blonde man. He vaguely remembered seeing him at the crime scene in Brixton. He felt himself flush. He had no right to be jealous, but there it was.

When the man walked away, Phillip sidled up to Sally. “Who’s that?” he murmured.

“John Watson – haven’t you met him before?”

“I’ve seen him around but I didn’t know who he was.”

“He’s The Freak’s flatmate.”

Phillip couldn’t keep his jaw from falling. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. They’re both certifiable, I say.” She looked at him sideways and half smiled. “Don’t worry, Phillip, nothing to fear from him. Rumour has it about those two.”

“No.” Phillip watched Watson walking away with Holmes. “No way.”

Sally shrugged. “Nothing to me,” she said.

+

He found the deerstalker in an antique shop. He bought it, just to make Sally laugh. It was her idea to give it to Holmes at the Ricoletti case press conference.

When Holmes opened the present, Phillip didn’t watch him; he only had eyes for Sally. She smiled and clapped, delight seeping out of every pore.

He suddenly realized that he couldn’t promise ‘no strings’ any more. He was gone on her, completely gone. He would do anything for her.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II**

 

Sally tapped on his office door and slid inside.

“Hey,” he said, a bit surprised. “I thought-”

“We found the kids,” she said. He searched her face for the usual jubilation that came with the successful conclusion of a case, and saw tension instead.

“Are they okay?”

“The girl is. The boy’s comatose. Mercury poisoning.”

“Shit.”

She pursed her lips. He wanted to hold her, but that was one of the rules – no touching at work. Even behind closed doors.

“Can I bounce some thoughts off you?” she said. “Something’s bothering me about the case.”

He listened, and felt a cold ball grow in his stomach.

“We need to talk to Lestrade,” he said.

+

After that it was a roller coaster. Talking to Lestrade, then the Chief Superintendent. He’d never spoken with the Chief before. He felt a bit badly when the Chief shouted down Lestrade, but he reminded himself that it was for the greater good.

He and Sally walked ahead of Lestrade to the elevator. “Let me know how it turns out,” he murmured to her.

“Yeah,” she said. To his surprise, she quickly squeezed his fingers before Lestrade caught up.

+

Later that night, he and Janice were watching telly when his mobile rang. Janice glared at him as he moved to answer it; he could never make her understand that he was constantly on call because of his work. If she wanted consistent hours, she should have married an accountant.

“Anderson,” he said into the mobile.

“Phillip, he’s gone, he’s running,” Sally shouted. She was panting as though she too were running. “He got away, and he stole a gun, he’s armed, Phillip, lock up everything, we don’t know where he’s going to go-”

He was already in motion, checking the deadlock on the front door. “How the hell did he-”

“Took Watson as a hostage. He’s crazy, he’s desperate. Lock everything, Phillip, stay away from the windows-”

“I know, I know-” he panted as he pulled the curtains across the window.

“I’ve got to go, okay? We’re tracking him now.”

He ran to the back door. Locked. “Okay, be careful, love, okay? Just be careful, Sally, please.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything.” She rang off.

He ran upstairs and closed all the windows with a bang, locked them. He ran back down to the sitting room and frantically looked around for anything he might have missed.

“Who’s Sally?” Janice said quietly, dangerously.

He stopped and turned to her. She was standing in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped around her. He ran through the last few minutes in his head and realized what he had done.

_Oh God._

He held up his hands to her, placating. “I know you want to have a row, and we will. But right now there’s a man I tried to have arrested out there, on the loose, and he’s armed. We have to stay safe until he’s caught. Then we can talk about this. Okay?”

She said nothing, pressed her lips together. He saw a tear gather in the corner of her eye, but she didn’t let it fall.

Phillip spent the night sitting on a chair in the sitting room with a fireplace poker in his hands. Janice spent the night packing.

+

He had fallen asleep in the chair, and was woken by his phone ringing again. He fumbled it and answered it on the third ring.

“Anderson,” he said hoarsely.

“Phillip,” Sally said. He had never heard her sound like this – dull, heavy. “He’s dead.”

His mouth went dry. “What?”

“Holmes, he – he jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s about an hour ago. Watson saw the whole thing. He got away from Holmes somehow and – Holmes jumped.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “Sally-”

“I’ve got to go,” she said, and hung up.

He sat and stared at the phone in his hand.

“Well?” Janice said.

He blinked at her.

“Is he caught? Is it safe now?” she snapped.

He opened his mouth and nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes, he’s – it’s safe.”

“Good,” she said. She picked up her suitcase and walked out.

+

He spent the next few days in a blur. He didn’t go into work, ignored the phone when it rang. He walked around London for hours. When he went home, he watched the news non-stop.

One day he found himself in front of St. Bart’s. He sat on a bench and stared at the dark spot on the pavement.

He didn’t know why he finally went over and scraped up some of the blood soaked stone, put it in an evidence bag he found in his pocket.

+

He went to the funeral. He had planned to slip quietly in just after the service had started, sit in the back. Unfortunately his timing went wrong, and he arrived just as John Watson did.

Watson glared at him, and Phillip thought his skin might peel off. “Come to gloat, have you? Well, you’re not welcome here,” Watson snarled.

Phillip held up his hands. “Doctor Watson – John – please, I-”

“Get out!” Watson yelled. “Go on, get out.” And when Phillip didn’t immediately move, he screamed, “Fuck off!”

Phillip heard a tiny gasp inside the small church. Lestrade came out, and Phillip didn’t know if he was relieved or more frightened.

“I’m sorry, John,” he whispered.

“Get out before I kill you,” Watson said, low. His voice was pure rage, but Phillip was shocked to see that Watson’s eyes were red and watery.

“Go, Anderson,” Lestrade said quietly. “Please.”

Phillip left. His legs shook so badly he thought he would fall before he got out of the churchyard.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Part III**

 

Phillip returned to work the next day. There was a strange, unsettled mood at the Met – no one had really liked Holmes, but his suicide was unexpected, as was the idea that he had arranged the kidnappings.

He found himself reviewing the evidence from the kidnapping; idly at first, then more intently. He studied the photographs of the footprints at the school until he had memorized them. He could see them floating in front of him at night while he tried to sleep. He heard Holmes’ voice insulting him:

_“You’re such an idiot, Anderson.”_

_“Come on, use your brain – it can’t have all rotted yet.”_

_“Think, Anderson, think!”_

_“His height, his weight, his gait… Come on, Anderson!”_

He calculated that the kidnapper had been about 190 cm tall and 105 kg – much larger than Holmes.

“ _Inconclusive!”_ Holmes’ voice snapped. _“I could have hired someone. The face would be all the children would remember. Check for known criminals with the same look.”_

Phillips started scanning the mugshot albums in every spare moment, looking for tall, heavyset men with sharp cheekbones.

+

He was in the lab, processing blood samples, when he remembered the bag of stones from St. Bart’s in his pocket. He had been carrying it around like a talisman.

He took it out of his pocket and stared at it for a long time. He thought about the inquest, and the witnesses’ testimony about the blood on the pavement. He remembered Holmes’ voice from long ago saying, “ _Exactly one pint_.”

“Huh,” he said to himself. He pulled one of the stones out of the bag with tweezers, laid it in a petri dish. He gathered a few materials from the cupboard, filled a pipette, and let a single drop fall on the stone. The blood fizzled and hissed.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

Two minutes later he burst into Lestrade’s office. “Lestrade, I – oh,” he said, surprised to see Gregson sitting at Lestrade’s desk. “Sorry, Gregson, I was looking for Lestrade.”

“He’s on leave,” said Gregson.

“Stress leave?”

Gregson laughed, short and harsh. “Sure, let’s call it that. What’s up?”

“I need to show you something.”

Gregson hadn’t been involved in the Monkford case, so Phillip explained on the way back to the lab. He heard his voice going higher, which it tended to do when he was excited. He couldn’t stop it. He also knew he was babbling as they entered the lab, but Gregson’s silence made him talk faster.

“… and the red blood cells break down when they’ve been frozen and thawed, and they react to the glycerol, quite dramatically, I must say, and – oh.”

The petri dish was gone.

“It was – it was here,” he stammered. “Look, doesn’t matter, I’ll reproduce the reaction for you, I’ve got-”

His evidence bag of stones was gone too. Phillip couldn’t breathe. “The stones – I had a bag – they were right here.”

“How’s the processing on the blood samples for the Dwyer case coming along, Anderson?” Gregson said softly.

“Um, I – Gregson, I swear, I-”

“Answer the question, Anderson.”

Phillip’s shoulders slumped. “About half way.”

“About?” Gregson’s voice got quieter. “Anderson, do I need to remind you that the longer you take to process those samples, the longer a killer is out on the streets?”

“Holmes would have solved it,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

“Well, he can’t, can he? He’s dead!” Gregson shouted. Phillip flinched.

Gregson took a deep breath. “I want those samples processed, and then I want you in my office in two hours with the results. And then we’re going to have a talk.”

+

Sally came into his office after he returned from Gregson; he was still shaking. He looked up at her as she leaned against the closed door.

“You heard?” he said.

“Phillip, everybody heard,” she said with a small smile. “He’s really loud.”

“You should try being in the same room with him,” he said.

Sally fiddled with her nails. “Your wife heard too, I guess. The other night, when… the other night.”

“Yeah.”

“So she knows?”

“Yeah.”

She said nothing.

“Okay,” he said softly.

She started to open the door, and he said, “Wait a minute, please?”

She shut the door again, and looked at him steadily. He swallowed and looked up at the ceiling for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

“I think we were wrong. About Holmes.”

She pressed her lips together and looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “Admitting that publicly will ruin our careers, Phillip. We can’t.”

He looked at her, swallowed again. “I’ll take it,” he said.

“What?”

“I’ll take the blame. Tell them it was my idea, that I placed the doubt in your head.”

“You’re mad. You’ll be fired, you’ll never work in forensics again. You’ll be lucky to get work in a coffee shop.”

He shrugged as nonchalantly as possible.

She stared at him, then pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “What’s wrong with me, Phillip?”

“What?”

She brought her hands down, wiped them on her shirt. “I should love you,” she said helplessly. “You’re kind, and you’re amazing in bed – your wife is an idiot, by the way – and you’re smart, and you just offered to sacrifice your career for me, and I should be head over heels in love with you. I _want_ to be in love with you, and I can’t.”

Phillip felt very calm, very centred suddenly. “Okay,” he said softly.

She left the room without saying anything more.

+

Lestrade returned a week later. He called Phillip into his office and asked him to close the door.

“Glad to have you back,” Phillip said, cautiously.

“Thanks, I – I just needed some time,” Lestrade said, staring down at his coffee.

Phillip swallowed, and said, “How’s Doctor Watson?”

Lestrade looked up sharply. After a moment he replied, “Not good.”

Phillip nodded, embarrassed and ashamed.

“Anderson, there’s – there’s a huge fucking note in your file from Gregson. I didn’t expect this from you.”

Phillip said nothing.

Lestrade leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Look, Anderson, while I was away I was pulling a few strings, and – well, there’s going to be an inquiry into Sherlock’s case – the kidnapping. And I know you’ve been looking into it.”

Phillip sat up straight, his eyes wide. “Yes! Yes, I have. There’s nothing conclusive yet but I-”

“You have to stop, Phillip.”

Phillip’s mouth snapped shut.

“Officially, you’re a witness. You’ll be called to testify – you and Donovan-”

“It was me put the idea in her head.” Phillip was pleased at how confident that sounded.

Lestrade gazed at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, you’ll both be called to provide your testimony. And you can’t muddle your testimony with your own investigation, right?”

“But I-”

“I don’t know why you’re doing this, Phillip. Is it guilt? If it is, if you’re trying to do right by Sherlock, that’s great. But you could cock up the whole inquiry if they know you’ve been investigating on your own. It’s conflict of interest. Back. Off.”

Phillip took two deep breaths, then nodded reluctantly. Lestrade let out a sigh of relief.

“Good man. I’ll send you the details when I’ve got them.”

Phillip stood and opened the door, but turned back. “Lestrade, are they going to investigate his death too?”

“His death?” Lestrade’s brows furrowed. “Clear cut suicide. Tons of witnesses, including his best friend. No evidence of foul play at all.”

“No, I mean – whether he’s actually dead.”

The silence crackled through the air as Lestrade stared at him. After a long moment, he said quietly, “Sherlock’s dead, Phillip.”

Phillip left the room. He returned to his office and pulled out the pictures of the pavement in front of St. Bart’s.

+

When the inquiry was called Phillip was one of the first to be called to testify.

“… Then Holmes called me in for black light to illuminate the linseed oil markings.”

“Linseed oil?” said one of the panelists.

Phillip shrugged. “He always was calling for strange things, stupid bugger.”

The panelist looked sharply at him. “Language, Mr. Anderson.”

“Apologies. I can’t help it when I think of him though. I think I hated him from the day I met him.”

There was a rumble amonst the panelists. Phillip saw Lestrade rub at his eyes.

“Do you think your dislike of Mr. Holmes affected your objectivity, Mr. Anderson?” said the Commissioner.

“Did you ever meet Mr. Holmes, sir?”

“No.”

“If you’d met him, you’d understand. I hated him so much I couldn’t see straight.”

+

He was fired three days after the inquiry ended. He took two boxes of personal belongings with him, most of which related to Sherlock Holmes.

He stopped shaving, grew a beard. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. That’s not the face of a man who cheated on his wife, he thought. That’s not the face of a man that forced a man to jump off a roof.

+

It was difficult to find evidence to back up his theory. The only witness that saw the whole thing was John Watson, and Phillip knew better than to try to contact him.

One day it occurred to him that while Watson was the only first-account witness, but in this day and age of camera phones, someone may have seen something more and recorded it. He started with YouTube. He found no direct footage, but instead stumbled across a video of someone theorizing about Holmes’s jump. He left a message for the poster, and was surprised to get an answer.

Slowly he gathered contacts who also doubted the official story. He invited a few over for tea. It was a relief to talk to other people about it, people who would not shake their heads and roll their eyes. The group snowballed, grew.

He was older than the eldest of the group by at least ten years. There were a few of them who were relatively intelligent and sensible, but as the group grew, some people joined who were immature and just plain silly. He didn’t know how to eliminate the stupid ones without blowing up the whole group, so he gritted his teeth and said nothing.

+

He was pleasantly surprised when Lestrade met him a couple of times for coffee, a beer. He knew Lestrade thought his theories were mad, but he was the only one that had actually known Holmes that he could talk to.

Sally never called. He didn’t expect her to.

+

One day, one of the group shared her theory that was so preposterous, Phillip had to restrain himself from throwing her out of her chair. _Enough_ , he thought. _That’s enough. It’s become ridiculous_.

But before he could really lose his temper, the news came in:

**_#Sherlock Lives._ **

He hustled them out of the house quickly. He left the door unlocked, the curtains open. He sat in the living room and waited.  

He didn’t leave the house for three days.

+

He watched the news constantly. He heard about the terrorist plot, and knew that Parliament stood now because of Holmes.

When his doorbell rang at 9:00am the morning after, he wasn’t surprised. He felt very calm.

He opened the door to see Sherlock Holmes, looking exactly the same as he had two years earlier.

“Hello, Phillip,” Holmes said.

“Hello, Sherlock. I – I was expecting you.”

Holmes smiled. “Well, I was in the neighbourhood, and thought I’d – come around.”

Phillip stepped aside, and let Sherlock Holmes in.

 

_End_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've chosen to ignore the whole subplot around "How I Did It by Jack the Ripper".
> 
> We'd love to hear what you think, about this or any of our other pieces!
> 
> You can follow us on Tumblr:  
> ResidentBunburyist: http://residentbunburyist.tumblr.com/  
> Standbygo: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/blogstandbygo


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